


A Miscommunication

by nightrose



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:50:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightrose/pseuds/nightrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the kinkmeme. Enjolras walks in on Grantaire being raped and assumes Grantaire is cheating on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Miscommunication

Enjolras opens the door to the loft he’s now sharing with Grantaire, expecting his lover won’t be home yet. It’s the middle of the day, and R has been actually attending his classes lately, now that he’s started dating Enjolras and stopped drinking quite so much.

There are two people on their bed. Grantaire is lying there, his legs spread obscenely wide, his mouth covered by a hand… a hand that is not his own. Because there’s also a stranger in their bed.

All Enjolras can see of the man is his back and his head of dark hair. He’s… he’s inside Grantaire, thrusting into him roughly again and again. With the rhythm of his movements, he lets out a stream of staggered groans, sounds Enjolras is sure he wil never be able to forget.

Enjolras stands, frozen, staring at the scene. After a moment, Grantaire sees him there. His eyes meet Enjolras’.

Grantaire has always had deeply expressive eyes, bright and full of feeling. He can clearly read the emotion there—Grantaire’s eyes are desperate, pleading.

As if he expects forgiveness for this.

Grantaire’s body is shaking, cries coming from his mouth where the stranger is muffling them. Enjolras’ stomach turns in disgust.

He watches for another few seconds. Not because he wants to—there’s nothing he wants to see less than his beloved Grantaire, the man he is just starting to open his heart up to, being made love to by someone else. But he can’t look away. All he can do is stare and stare, his heart pounding, his stomach boiling.

After a while, though, he can’t bear it anymore. He turns, Grantaire’s wide eyes following him, and runs out the door, slamming it behind him.

He runs back to the café, to where he can be alone with a cup of tea and his tears. He tries his best not to cry, of course, just as he tried for so long to repress his feelings toward Grantaire.

Clearly, he never should have allowed his emotion to get the better of him. He should have stayed cold, he should have stayed cruel. He never should have let even a touch of tenderness color his interactions with the other man. He knew when he first met Grantaire that he was incapable of true devotion to anything. He does not know why he allowed himself to believe he was the exception to Grantaire’s cynicism.

But he does. In truth, he does know why, and that is the very worst thing at all. Because the reason he gave in, the reason he allowed himself to feel tenderness, to feel love, for the first time in his entire life, is because he truly believed Grantaire loved him as well. He basked in the warmth of the other man’s devotion, felt warmth in the ownership of his heart.

He thought, for once, that somene saw him as a man, not of stone, but of flesh and blood and needs. Someone who could give unselfishly, who could accept love even when he struggled to express it, who wouldn’t judge him when he struggled with words, who would want him, and only him, with the kind of single-minded devotion Enjolras shows to everything he does.

He thought he had that.

And he was wrong.

 

 

 

 

It’s hours before Grantaire arrives. Honestly, Enjolras expected him to come sooner, as soon as his lover had finished and left.

Grantaire stares at the floor, unable to meet Enjolras’ eyes. Enjolras can smell the alcohol on his breath—liquid courage for this conversation, perhaps, or maybe the reason he’d taken a stranger into their bed anyway.

Enjolras honestly doesn’t care why he did it. All he cares about is that it happened. “You can move out tomorrow,” Enjolras informs him. “I want all your things gone. I never want to see you again.”

Grantaire just nods.

“Nothing to say for yourself?” Enjolras taunts, surprised at the cruelty in his own voice.

“No,” Grantaire whispers.

He’s almost surprised. He would have expected Grantaire to beg and plead for his forgiveness. Maybe he genuinely cares that little. “Pathetic,” Enjolras sneers, and Grantaire flinches. “How could you?”

Grantaire stares down at the floor. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I bet.”Enjolras is well aware that he sounds childish, but he can barely help it. He’s just trying to focus on anything—any words, any ideas, anything at all—that will help keep him from sobbing.

“I tried… I tried not to…” Grantaire stammers.

“Oh, what, you were powerless to prevent it?” Too overtaken by drink or lust, too weak o fight his momentary lusts, because Grantaire doesn’t think their love was worth fighting for.

Grantaire’s voice is shaking. “I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

Enjolras forces his face into a sneer. His heart is crying out telling him to forgive, to do whatever it takes, to accept anything and everything if it means he doesn’t have to give up the only taste of love he’s ever known. But he simply can’t do it. He has to maintain some dignity. He has to contain his own feelings, so he can maintain his dignity. “Get out of my sight,” he hisses at Grantaire, and Grantaire ducks his head and goes. He doesn’t protest, doesn’t fight.

He doesn’t care.

He just walks away, leaving Enjolras behind.

 

 

 

 

  
Of course, Grantaire think of talking to the Amis. But they’re Enjolras’ friends first… not to mention his comrades in battle. They’ll probably be just as disgusted with him as Enjolras is.

So he goes. He packs up his few things and he heads for his sister’s, but she has a new baby and no room for him.

He spends a few nights on the street. He buys bottles from a shop and sleeps under one of Paris’ famous bridges, thinking of how he would paint Enjolras’ face in this sitting, by the Seine under the light of the stars

He drinks and drinks and waits for cold and hunger to get the better of him. When he runs out of money, he steals his drink instead. And he waits to die.

He is tragically interrupted in his goal by the arrival of Joly sometime during the second week. “R?”

“Go away.” He can’t bear to be chased away and scorned, not by his cheerful former friend.

“Grantaire, is that you?”

“Please don’t.”

Joly rushes to him, taking his hand. “My God, R, you’re cold as ice.” He stares at him. “Have you been sleeping out here?”

“Don’t sleep much these days.” Grantaire coughs quietly, trying to stifle the sound.

“Are you sick?”

“I don’t think it’s contagious.” Grantaire hopes that he’s caught some kind of lung sickness that will finish him off quickly enough.

“Why?” Joly looks at him, saddened. “Why are you here?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Where else would I go?”

“I can’t believe Enjolras would let this happen to you. No matter what went on between the two of you…”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“No. You know how he is.”

Grantaire looks out over the river. “Someone broke into the apartment. Looking to steal. Found me instead. I was… being… He held me down. Forced me… I didn’t… and Enjolras walked in.”

“You were raped?” Joly asks, his voice gentle, and Grantaire presses a hand over his mouth to stifle his sobs as he nods. “And Enjolras didn’t—“

“He—he stood there and he—watched, he watched it happen, and then he left, he told me to get out of his sight, that he never wanted to see me again.” Grantaire tries desperately to hold back tears. “Because I’m p-pathetic and weak and I couldn’t fight him off. Enjolras h-hates m-m-“ He can’t finish the words.

Joly takes off his coat, putting it around Grantaire’s shoulders. “I’m telling the others. We’re going to take care of you.” He hugs Grantaire. “I can’t believe he would do that to you. After… but don’t worry, R. You’re with us now. The worst is over.”

 

 

 

 

Enjolras does not understand what he’s done wrong. The Amis are treating him very differently these days. From a sense of comraderie, of the first friendship he’s ever known, everything has turned to coldness. His friends still come to the meetings, but as soon as speeches are done and plans are declared, they rush out the door. No one tries to cajole Enjolras into having a bit of fun anymore. They seem just as happy to go without him.

He doesn’t understand the reason for their coldness, especially now. Admittedly, he hadn’t told them exactly what transpired with Grantaire. It’s just not in his nature to open up about such deeply intimate details.

Yet he is sure they know, at least some of them. They must have inferred. Grantaire has never been reliable, and now he’s gone completely. Surely they know that he would protest, or at least remain close to their friends, had Grantaire not been completely at fault for their breakup. Indeed, if Enjolras had scorned him for no reason, there’s every chance Grantaire would be following him around, lovesick, as he used to.

Now he’s gone, and—and good riddance, or so Enjolras tries to believe. Good riddance to friendship as well. Comraderie is well and good. Working together for the cause is desperately important. But sex jokes and bawdy songs and going out for drinks after meetings is nothing but a distraction.

Now that no one cares about Enjolras, he has so much more time to get work done.

It doesn’t matter that his bed is cold. It doesn’t matter that he is so lonely he wishes to die at times. It doesn’t matter that his heart is twisting in his chest every time he thinks Grantaire’s name or looks at one of his friends and sees only coldness in return.

Actually, it does, and it’s fucking unbearable.

One day, he can bear it no longer. “What, exactly, have I done?” he asks Combeferre in a whisper after the meeting. “Why have you all grown so cold? I know this is not my own imagining.”

Combeferre, usually so kind, simply shakes his head. “Grantaire.”

“I cannot—I cannot possibly be expected… do you know what happened?”

“We all do. That’s the problem.”

“What—and you blame me for it?”

“Enjolras, you know I do not consider it my place to judge. You know I am your friend, no matter what. But I find myself unwilling to spend time in the company of a man who could do such a thing as you have done. You are not my friend now, for you are not yourself. But I am certain you will find your way again. And you know that we will forgive you.”

Enjolras flinches at the words and falls silent.

“I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you.” Combeferre sighs. “I just want… I cannot help but think of how he was when we found him.”

“R is… is with you?”

“He is staying with Joly. As his doctor.”

“What do you mean?”

Combeferre blinks. “Perhaps you do not understand exactly what it is you’ve done. Perhaps soon, it will be made clear.” And with those mystifying words, he bids Enjolras good night and departs.

 

 

 

The next day, Combeferre approaches him after their meeting. “I’ve spoken with Grantaire, and he’ll see you.”

“Who says I want to see him?” Enjolras bites back.

“Oh, I think you do. If you ever want to find yourself in the good graces of us all again, I think you want to talk to him. Ask his forgiveness.”

“He should be asking mine,” Enjolras mutters, hearing how sulky his own voice is.

Combeferre shakes his head. “Never in my life have I been more disappointed in any man than I am in you, Enjolras.”

That certainly stings, enough to take all the fight right out of Enjolras. He agrees to follow Combeferre back to Joly and Bahorel’s apartment.

All of the Amis are gathered there. Courfreyrac and Feuilly stand by the door, arms crossed, as if standing watch. Jehan is bustling around the kitchen, making a pot of soup. Bahorel and Prouvaire are simply sitting on the couch, staring at… the makeshift cot in the center of the room, where Joly is leaning over a semi-conscious body.

Grantaire’s body.

The man is shrunken and thin, his skin pale except for lurid week-old bruises healing on his face and arms. He’s shaking as he lies there, Joly pressing cold compresses onto his head.

Tentatively, Enjolras approaches. “R?” He doesn’t answer. Enjolras looks around the room. “Is… is this why everyone’s mad at me? Because I didn’t—I didn’t know. And I’m sorry he’s ill. But I had every reason for what I did, and this isn’t my fault.”

“Sure it isn’t,” Bahorel practically sneers at him. Enjolras has never heard such a tone from his friend before.

“Truly, I didn’t—“ Enjolras begins.

“How can you defend this?” Jehan asks plaintively. “Does your heart not cry out?”

“I—of course I am sorry for him. I didn’t mean for this to happen.” He looks around the room for a sympathetic glance and gets only glares. “I am sorry, but… did you bring me here for no reason other than to make me feel guilt? Because you have succeed. Of course I do not want to see any man, especially not… a former… friend, sick in bed. On the other hand I do not wish to be made to feel a monster by my own companions, and I do not understand what I have done wrong.” The last part he practically snaps. He is tired of the guilt, of his friends’ avoidance. He just wants to understand.

“You didn’t have to come,” Grantaire rasps. “If you don’t want to see me. You can go. I’ll tell them… I tried to. ‘s not your fault. ‘m pathetic.”

“What happened?”

“You told me to get out.” Grantaire smiles ruefully. “Nowhere t’go. Cold out there, ‘n I’ve got a smart mouth. Got beat up. Slept under some bridges. Joly found me. ‘m sick, but ‘m not gonna die, even Joly doesn’t think so.”

“You didn’t—you could’ve—“

“You wanted me t’go. Not gonna… gonna inflict m’self on you.”

Combeferre leaves Enjolras’ side, moving to fuss over Grantaire as the boy moans and tries to hide his face. Enjolras stills him with a glance and kneels at Grantaire’s bedside himself. “I am sorry. I should have realized.”

“’s not y’r fault ‘m pathetic. Too weak to make’t on m’own. Too weak t’fight him off.” Grantaire’s voice is so slurred, his eyes glazed over with fever, it seems as if he’s barely conscious.

“What do you mean, too weak to fight him off?” Enjolras asks, confused. “The men who beat you? It seems like you did all right—“

Grantaire barks out a laugh. “Y’know. Y’saw.” His voice turns frightened, childlike. “Don’t… don’t make me say…”

Courfreyrac sighs and interrupts, snapping at Enjolras a little. “He means his rapist, Enjolras.”

Grantaire flinches at the word, but nods slightly.

“What—“ Enjolras begins, and then everything becomes horribly, terribly clear. Enjolras isn’t stupid. He’s just been intentionally blind to the awful truth. “You were… you were being… Oh, God, Grantaire, I can never be forgiven.”

Grantaire turns to look at him, his eyes wide with confusion and dazed with his illness.

“I didn’t know,” Enjolras explains. “I thought that you were… cheating on me. That you had betrayed our relationship and chosen another above me. I didn’t know.”

“You could’ve stopped it,” Grantaire whispers, his voice empty. “That’s the worst thing. I couldn’t understand why, even if you hate me now, why you wouldn’t save me. You could’ve.”

Knowing that Grantaire would never say such hurtful truths if he were in his right mind only makes it worse. “I know. What you must have thought—“

“I thought you didn’t care. If I was hurt. That you would fight for everyone on this earth except for me.” Grantaire’s voice is a little stronger now, his mind clearing as though he’s drawing health from Enjolras’ presence. Enjolras notices vaguely that the other Amis have retreated to give them a little space to talk, but not far enough that there are no watchful eyes on Grantaire. It’s fair enough. He does not deserve to be trusted.

“You saw… you saw me abandon you to rape, break your heart, kick you out of your only home, and try to separate you from your friends. You must think I am a monster.” Enjolras is inclined to agree with this assessment.

Grantaire shakes his head vigorously, then pauses, clearly dizzy from the motion, before he speaks. “No. I thought… I was pathetic. Like you said. Too weak to fight back. Got drunk like you said I shouldn’t. Could’ve fought him otherwise. My fault.”

Enjolras lets out a soft cry, pressing a kiss to Grantaire’s sweaty brow. “No, love, no. Don’t say that. If you say you didn’t want it, I believe you. I do. And that means it wasn’t your fault.”

Grantaire shivers at the touch of Enjolras’ lips and says, quietly, “Will you… will you allow me to attend meetings again? So I could see you sometimes?”

Enjolras kisses his forehead again. “I was going to ask if there was any way you would consider forgiving me, and coming home. When you are well. And if you will permit me to play nursemaid in the meantime.”

Grantaire’s eyes fill with tears. “You cannot mean it.”

“I do. I know it is presumptuous. You will probably never forgive me.”

“I already have.” He reaches for Enjolras’ hand, and Enjolras willingly laces his fingers in Grantaire’s. “I never blamed you.”

“You ought to. How could you—“

“I thought it was my fault. That I deserved—“

Enjolras shakes his head desperately. “No, no. No one deserves that. And certainly not you, my beloved.”

Grantaire trembles a little. “You really—will you really take me back?”

“If you will have me.”

Tears start to fall down Grantaire’s face, and he sits up a little, enough that Enjolras can get his arms around him. As they embrace, the other Amis return, one by one, and look at them. Joly begins to fuss at Grantaire’s unauthorized stirring from his sickbed, but Grantaire smiles and waves him off, though his movements are still feeble.

“Forgive me,” Enjolras says to his friends, his voice cracking. “I didn’t know.”

They nod in unison, voices rising to assure him that they are sorry for what they had to do, that they can’t believe no one told him, that they’re so glad they’re back together.

“Me too,” Enjolras whispers into Grantaire’s ear, and Grantaire leans back against him and smiles.


End file.
